Hard Drive
by musicalsarelife
Summary: Sherlock has only so much space on his hard drive. This was written months ago, before season 2 came out. Finally decided to publish it. Mentions of sex.


"Hard Drive"

When they first kissed, there were no fireworks. There was no adrenaline-filled, passionate embrace after a close call with Moriarty. And, there were no frantic apologies after an argument where they said exactly what they didn't mean. One morning, when John handed him his tea, Sherlock just leaned up and kissed him softly, and John returned the kiss, feeling as if he had just come home to the house where he just realized he belonged.

Sherlock smiled against John's mouth, cataloguing the give and warmth of John's lips, the light scent of John's aftershave, the light sigh of breath from John's nose.

As if suddenly realizing what had happened, they both pulled back in shock. But, their eyes met again, ice and ocean blue. They grinned and laughed respectively, before leaning back in for another kiss.

* * *

Each time they made love, John immersed himself in Sherlock. He felt, in the white cage of Sherlock's arms and legs, that he could not be safer anywhere else.

Sherlock memorized the solid press of John chest and the salty moisture of the sweat that rolled down John's neck and back, the soft moan of Sherlock from John's lips and the sweet taste of the scar tissue on John's left shoulder, which contrasted with the bitter, metallic flavor of blood, when either of them bit the other's lip too hard. Sherlock filed away the difference of taste between his blood and John's.

* * *

Upon return to 221b, Sherlock collapsed, shaking, into the chair, as John made tea in the kitchen. He forced himself to look through his mind. "It's not possible. I don't understand…" He mumbled, cradling his head in his hands.

John returned and set the tea on the table. He quietly walked around the back of the chair, leaned over, rested his head on Sherlock's, and draped his arms about his neck.

"I can't believe I failed to remember the difference in appearance between cotton and wool fibers."

"It's not a big deal, Sherlock."

"If I had remembered, Anne Southerland would be alive."

"Love, you'll just have to remember it for next time. It's normal to forget once in a while. It keeps you human." John gently kissed Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock looked up, which gave him a lovely view of John's neck. He pressed a kiss to the throat, noticing the flutter of John's pulse.

With a start, Sherlock pulled away. He stared into John's eyes. Ocean blue.

John's brow furrowed in concern. "What?"

Sherlock didn't answer, so John sat of the sofa, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock collapsed against John, against the familiar rhythm of the rise and fall of John's chest, and inhaled the scent of what Sherlock recalled to be John's favorite brand of fabric softener.

* * *

"I don't think we should be together anymore, John."

The mumbled words over breakfast caused John to freeze, midway through buttering his toast. He set the knife down. His heart was racing, and he could feel the tremor begin in his left hand. Looking up, John answered in a voice hardly louder than Sherlock's, "You can't be serious."

"I am." Sherlock stared at the plate in front of him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me."

The detective pressed his eyes closed for a moment before opening his eyes and looking across the table. There was no lie or joke or malice in those eyes, just a frightening, sad seriousness.

"But, God, why?"

"It just needs to happen, John. I'm very sorry."

They stared at each other for a very short eternity, before Sherlock forced himself up and walked away to dress for the day, but he hadn't stood up in time to miss how John's spine crumpled when he was about to cry.

* * *

"I'm moving out, Sherlock." John was wringing his hands, no longer as tan as when he had just returned from Afghanistan.

Sherlock set down his violin and turned to the doctor. "You are?"

"It's too hard for me to live with you. I can't help but want you and love you in the same ways I always have, and since you don't want me to act on those feelings anymore, I think I just need to remove myself from you. Not entirely, of course. I'll still work with you whenever you need my assistance or just need someone to act in place of your skull, but I can't stay here. It hurts me too much."

"I never thought about you leaving." Sherlock's eyes became unfocused, and his voice was oddly wistful. "Of course it would be easier to cease relations completely when we are not together."

John swallowed, "You still haven't told me why."

"Where will you live?"

John shook his head, accustomed to Sherlock's evasion. "With Sarah until I can find another flat mate. I'm on the look-out."

"I'll let you know if I hear of anything that may help you."

"Oh. Thank you. I'll be moved out within the week." John turned away before he started crying, but Sherlock watched his spine collapse, and therefore knew anyway.

* * *

On John's move-out day, Mycroft was there. He had hired a couple large men to assist John with the bigger boxes, although he didn't have much. Most of the junk in their flat was Sherlock's.

Mycroft didn't help, though, nor did he offer John any parting words, because upon his brother's arrival, Sherlock had hissed, "Nothing from you, not a word, Mycroft."

"You are really being foolish, Little Brother."

"Shut up, brother mine." Sherlock growled acidly.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon glaring at one another, and John left in silence, with the two movers.

* * *

John lived with Sarah for a month, before Sherlock suggested John look into a recently divorced college acquaintance, and John moved in with him.

A year passed in the flat with Richard Jameson, before John met Mary through one of Sherlock's cases.

They courted briefly, and within six months, they married. Sherlock served as best man at the wedding. At the reception, Sherlock raised his glass and toasted the couple, "To the very best man I have ever known, and the one woman who has ever been worthy of him."

"Thank you for that, Sherlock." John found Sherlock with a glass of wine much later in the party. "I think Sarah may have been a little miffed, but really, it was a really great toast."

Sherlock turned from his drink and gave John a small smile. "I'm glad you liked it."

They held each other's gaze for a moment before John sighed and turned away. With his eyes, Sherlock followed him back to the safe and loving arms of his wife.

* * *

Twenty years passed, and John saw very little of Sherlock. They texted on occasion, but only saw each other when Sherlock had a particularly difficult case and needed John's medical knowledge or a particularly experienced sounding board.

At fifty-five, John's limp was no longer psychosomatic, thanks to a farewell gift from Moriarty. His blond hair had streaks of gray. He had a few more crow's feet, and his smile lines were deeper. "John, do you know how beautiful you are?" Sherlock asked very bluntly, once Lestrade parted after the close of a case.

He started and straightened into his soldier's posture. "Sherlock, you know I'm married."

Sherlock, whose only visible change was that his eyes had grown slightly more lined, frowned. "Of course, I do."

"Which means, I cannot have a relationship with you, now." John said slowly.

"I was never suggesting that." He said, as he tilted his head in confusion.

"Oh. Of course, you weren't." John shook his head. "It's just when an ex says something like that, he or she usually means…well, never mind. You didn't mean that. I'll go, then." They said goodbye, and John turned, limping to the door. He paused in the frame. "Sherlock, please tell me why." He whispered.

"'Why'?"

"Why you broke it off! I loved you, Sherlock!" John had turned back. He shouted and tears, streamed down his face. "We were perfect together!"

"Aren't you happy with Mary, John?" Sherlock whispered, not meeting his friend's eye.

John laughed bitterly, "I am. Actually, I am. But, that doesn't mean I ever got over what you did to me. You gave me no warning! I thought we were fine, wonderful even! I had no clue that I was boring you or tiring you, or doing whatever I was doing wrong! Why couldn't you have told me? Why couldn't you have let me even try to fix things?"

"You couldn't fix this, John." Sherlock stepped forward. His voice cracked in desperation.

"Why not?"

"Because you weren't doing anything wrong. It was all my fault."

The room fell silent for a very long time. "Everything that was wrong was due to my deficiency." He continued.

"What are you talking about? I adored you, Sherlock. I saw no deficiency. You had no deficiency."

With a heaving sigh, Sherlock fell onto the couch and covered his face with his hands. Through his fingers, he asked, "Do you remember, when I said my mind was like a hard drive? There was only so much room?"

"Yes." John nodded once.

"Sometimes I delete something consciously, but when there is no more room, other things just fall out of their own accord."

"I don't understand."

"John, the more I was with you, the more I tried to understand you. The more I tried that, the more I observed, noticed, and memorized about you. I was filling every space in my mind with your smile, your scent, your touch–each time you handed me tea or fired a gun–every moment we spent together–I was forgetting John! Forgetting everything other than you, and I couldn't bring myself to delete memories of you. I tried to think of what I'd be willing to give up from our experiences, but I couldn't bear to lose anything–I couldn't. The only choice, John, my only choice was to stem the flow of information, so I broke it off. John, please understand, if I hadn't, I would have lost my ability for deduction. I would have forgotten everything I needed to work."

John was silent for many moments, his jaw clenched. "So that's it." He seethed, finally.

Sherlock looked up. "Wha–?"

"You destroyed one of the best relationships of my life, took away the one thing I loved so much, the one person who understood who I was and what I needed, just because you may have forgotten what a kind of cigarette ash looked like?"

"No–"

"I am lucky with Mary–I do love her! But, God, Sherlock, if someone hadn't been looking after me and hadn't given me her, I would have spent my entire life regretting and wishing and dreaming of what I lost, because in all honesty, other than Mary, there has never been anyone I loved as much as you, and I really wished I meant more to you than the chemist slide of cotton thread."

"John, no, you meant everything to me-"

"I couldn't have. Not when you would risk my greatest joy for a few lost numbers."

"John, no!" Sherlock cried out. He looked up, and John saw his eyes glistening with tears, "I'm not talking about a few figures. I mean, I was going to lose my mind. Not go mad, but lose what made me able to deduce, to be a detective. I was losing everything that made me desirable."

"What are you talking about?"

"Without my mind, John, what am I? I am an overly thin bastard, with no social abilities, and a propensity towards a cocaine addiction. Without my mind, I not only become unemployable, but anyone who would stay with me would have to be certifiably insane. It wasn't just losing detective work, John, it was losing you as well."

John felt his face contort into a mask or horror. "If you couldn't be a detective, I wouldn't have left you, Sherlock."

"No, you probably wouldn't have. You're too noble, but you would have wanted to. You would have realized, far too quickly, that you were with someone with no desirable traits, and you would become resentful or bored. And, even if you didn't leave me physically, you would have hated me. And, John, I needed one of you. You, or the work. I wanted both, but I knew if I tried, I would lose everything, so I kept the one I could hold onto, even if it meant losing, pushing away, my only other love."

"Sherlock, why couldn't you trust me to love you for your heart as well as for your mind?" John voice came out in a whisper.

"Because, John, you know I have no heart." Sherlock had curled up on the couch, wrapping his arms around his knees and staring straight ahead.

"That's not true. I would never have fallen in love with you, if you had no heart."

"You were my heart, John. It was a choice between my mind and my heart. I would have chosen my heart; I would have chosen you, if I thought I could hold onto you, but if I had lost my mind, I wouldn't have been worthy to keep you, anyway."

John shook his head violently. "You're mad–It's not–"

"HOW COULD I HAVE KEPT YOU SAFE, JOHN?" John had never heard a man raise his voice in anguish before. It silenced him, and Sherlock continued. "Can't you imagine that I hate myself enough for the sniper bullet in your leg? You and I know Moriarty could have done much worse, and personally, I was quite terrified to discover what he would do if I had no power to stop him."

John didn't speak, unable to sort through what he wished to say.

The silence was broken when John's mobile rang. "Hello…Yes–" John's voice hitched, "Mary, I'll be down in a moment. Yes, I'm fine." He hung up but didn't move.

Sherlock blinked. The tears that had pooled in his eyes fell in rivulets down his face. "You should go, John."

"Sherlock-"

"Please, John." Sherlock pleaded, wiping at tears with the heel of his hands.

John sighed. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock stiffened. It had been twenty years since someone had touched him so tenderly. John whispered in his ear, "Sherlock, I really only wish I could make you see how great a man you are. If that was all I could accomplish in my life, it would be enough."

John stood up and turned away.

"Say, 'Hello' to Mary for me."


End file.
